“Mercy, no! I’ll have to think it
over. Wait! I have it! Have your picture
taken—­with the wreath on, and give me that.”

“All right, I will. Or perhaps Mr. Cromer
would sketch me in this whole rig.”

“Perhaps he would!” and Farnsworth
caught his breath, as he looked at the vision of loveliness
before him. “But we’ll see about that
later. Skip to bed now, Apple Blossom, and don’t
appear below decks before noon to-morrow.”

“No, I won’t. I’m awful tired.
Good-night, Little Billee.”

“Good-night, Apple Blossom Girl,” and
Farnsworth held aside the curtain as Patty stepped
through the window.

A shower of flowers flew after her, for Bill had picked
up his remaining posies, and Patty laughed softly,
as the curtain fell and she stood in her room, surrounded
by a scattered heap of roses.

“Just like a theatrical lady,” she said,
smiling and bowing to an imaginary audience, for Patty
loved to “make-believe.”

And then she took off her silver wreath and put it
carefully away.

“Little Billee is such a nice boy,”
she said, reflectively, as she closed the box.

CHAPTER XVIII

“Delicious,” said Patty, who was luxuriously
nestling among her pillows while she ate her breakfast.

“Well, make the most of it, for you’ll
never get anything more fit to eat or drink in this
happy home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to my tale of woe. The chef and
his wife have both left.”

“Francois? And Marie! Why, whatever
for?”

“Your English is a bit damaged, but I’ll
tell you. You see, Aunt Adelaide flew into one
of her biggest tantrums, because her shirred egg was
shirred too full, or her waffles didn’t waff,—­or
something,—­and she sent for Francois and
gave him such a large piece of her mind that he picked
up his Marie and walked off.”

“Have they really gone?”

“They really have. I’ve telephoned
to the Intelligence Place, and I can’t get a
first-class cook down here at all. I shall have
to send to the city for one, but, meantime—­what
to do! What to do!”